How I Learned to Stop Worrying and
My Daughter Learned to Love the Cane

by Patricia Renfranz

My
daughter Caroline, who is now twelve, is congenitally blind. She has been enrolled
in a mainstream elementary school program since second grade. We spent many
joyful and many frustrating hours encouraging her to explore her world as a
toddler and preschooler. One day she’d be up to her armpits in a pumpkin--gleefully
enjoying the gunk--and the next day she’d be crying at the top of a slide--afraid
to come down but determined to do it nonetheless. A few times I crammed myself
into the McDonald’s Playland tunnels to orient her or encourage her to keep
moving. The worst times were those when we felt the glare of other parents as
we “tortured” that poor crying blind toddler who couldn’t make up her mind to
go up or down on the playground slide. We had to remember that we knew our daughter
best. We knew she wanted to slide down; we just had to hang in with her until
she had the courage to do it. Fortunately, my family’s resilience in these matters
has paid off. Perhaps this is why I was asked by the Future Reflections editor
to write about cane travel and training during the elementary school years.
So, here goes.

Caroline received her first cane in preschool at the Utah Schools for the Deaf
and the Blind. This cane, in fact, was a little tiny NFB cane, the significance
of which I did not appreciate at the time. I don’t think Caroline saw this cane
as a great emancipator, but she did receive encouragement and training. As she
moved into elementary school, her various orientation and mobility instructors
(OMIs) provided her with a number of different cane types (usually the red and
white aluminum cane) and cane tips. She used her cane at school--in the halls,
in the lunchroom, and on the playground--fairly responsibly. On the other hand,
she was always encouraged to leave it at the doorway of her classroom, even
though a classroom is the least predictable space in the whole school. Caroline
mixed her techniques and grips to use the cane as she saw fit, while receiving
instruction on its proper usage.

I do not think it is heretical or dangerous for her to have mixed and matched
techniques; she was just being a kid. However, technique was a focus of her
IEP goals. Technique is intimidating, and while an OMI (or a parent) may know
a lot about techniques, they do not necessarily know how to translate techniques
devised for blind adults into a program appropriate for children. It makes me
wonder if OMI training programs have any sort of pediatric specialty. Are any
of those folks who are just terrific working with children--we know who they
are, even if we can't describe the type--ever recruited into OMI training programs?
What about teachers with an elementary education background? Are OMIs working
in the school system able to receive training in child development or child
psychology? Are OMIs eligible for special endorsements for working with children?
Our family certainly could have benefited from such cross-disciplinary expertise.
We’ve just discovered the Modular Instruction book by Willoughby and Monthei
and I was delighted to learn that Willoughby was a former elementary school
teacher. I wish we had discovered the book years ago.

In
any case, at home and in the community, Caroline’s use of the cane was a different
story than at school. Picture us in a busy parking lot, Caroline standing outside
the car door sans cane, insisting quite stridently that she will neither use
her cane nor walk with an adult. In retrospect, I can see this as a young child’s
yearning for independence--yearning desperately in fact--without the maturity
to understand that independence requires skills and responsibility. Her desire
to be independent (not to be quashed!) blossomed without the cognitive skills
to understand that safe, responsible travel by a child in a very large parking
lot requires either the use of the cane with supervision, or guidance from an
adult. Her spirit wanted to be free (not holding hands with mom or dad) but
her mind could not accept the limited choices--use your cane with someone nearby
or hold our hands--that we (her parents) decided to give her in that circumstance.

This brings me to one side note, which is this question: Does every trip to
the grocery store have to be a lesson in cane travel, orientation, or mobility?
I feel guilty if I don’t give Caroline the opportunity to practice every chance
we get, but sometimes I have to do what is best for me or for my family as a
whole, not just what is best for my blind daughter. So, sometimes I leave her
in the produce section to explore to her heart’s content while I go round up
something for dinner. I do what I can to keep her safe, and I am guiltily relieved
to not be there to see the looks of other customers or clerks as she handles
all the unusual (or not so unusual) items. It is a decision that gives us both,
parent and child, a little independence. She needs to know I trust her. Of course,
sometimes she just stays in the car while I run in to get milk. I know, I know--Bad
Mom.

Caroline and I went shoe shopping a few weeks ago. Like all the other times,
I insisted she walk around the shoe department to try the shoes out. A few years
ago, she was quite reluctant to do this. I could see the wheels turning in her
mind: "Use a cane--stand out. Not use a cane--bump into shin-height display
tables. Other kids around? I can’t see them, but I know they are staring at
me." Even a little task like trying on shoes became fraught with significance.
I would ask myself questions, too. Do I mention the cane? Do I just let her
decide? If she doesn’t use it, do I let her bruise her shins or trip on open
boxes, and learn her lesson the hard way? Why am I giving so much significance
to every little thing in her life? I need therapy before we’ve even picked out
what shoes to try on!

Our last shoe expedition, though, worked. We had to go to the grown-up shoe
department because she’s growing so fast. There were fewer kids but more people
and more obstacles, and it was in a busier part of the store. So, we get there
and soon off she goes, trying her new shoes. Cane in hand, she avoids the pillars
and the shin-killing shelves; she doesn’t quite avoid all the people, but that’s
okay. We still get the looks--“Oh, that child is brave; oh, that parent is brave;
oh, poor thing--look at her maneuvering around all the stuff on the floor.”
They don’t realize it’s not about bravery. It does not take bravery to wander
around a shoe department. This time, however, it did take a remarkable confluence
of physical, social, and cognitive skills that we have journeyed long to find.

This year, Caroline has taken ownership of her cane, and we are so proud of
her. Unfortunately, it resulted in a brouhaha with her OMI over what type of
cane Caroline should use. Caroline decided she preferred the NFB-style cane,
which is lighter, made of fiberglass, has a narrow round grip, and a metal tip.
Her OMI insisted it was not safe. She wanted Caroline to use one of the other
types of canes: the heavier aluminum cane, a folding cane, a cane with a golf
grip, a cane with a plastic tip, a cane with a marshmallow tip—any cane but
the NFB cane. Meetings had to be held and tempers flared. As parents, we were
ecstatic that Caroline had decided to use any type of cane at all. As I told
our friends, she could have chosen a telephone pole and I would have been happy.
Our years of struggle, both public and private, to get her to take a cane and
use it, had finally paid off! Instead of celebrating, her OMI refused to instruct
her, indicating to us a lack of appreciation for what a blind child must go
through to accept a cane in her life (I guess her OMI had never seen us in certain
parking lots). With strong support from us, Caroline now has another OMI, one
who has an open mind and who respects a blind kid’s feelings about using a cane.
Things are working very well now.

I learned many things from reading Kenneth Jernigan’s article, “The Nature
of Independence.” [That article is also reprinted in this issue.] One is that
independence comes from knowledge and training, and from those come the power
of choice. I think that OMIs, whether from within or outside the NFB, should
respect the fact that there is no fixed prescription for independent mobility
for any blind child. One child may need more or less time than mine to acquire
the cognitive skills to understand what the cane is and how it can help him
or her move independently. One child may be more or less sensitive than mine
about balancing how the cane makes one different versus how it non-intuitively
makes that child fit in. One family may be better able or less able than mine
to find a good balancing point between the disciplined attitude that “every
action has import--use the cane every day or you’ll never be independent” and
a laissez-faire attitude of “hand the cane to the child and let her or him decide
when to use it.”

Next year, Caroline will be going to junior high. She’ll have a big, complicated
school to navigate. Thanks to a wonderful OMI, she is already learning the layout,
not just routes but how to figure out for herself where she is. I am confident
that she is discovering her own path to being an independent blind student who
carries a cane.

Pat Renfranz is a new member on the board of the NOPBC and a leader in
the Parents of Blind Children of Utah. She and her family live in Salt Lake
City, Utah.

Editor’s Note: Pat raised an important question about the
university training of O&M instructors. At least one program addresses the
need of future instructors to have some knowledge about how children develop.
The Louisiana Tech orientation and mobility degree program requires that students
take a three-hour course in developmental aspects of blindness with a focus
on child development. Students are taught the milestones for typically developing
children, and how to use and adapt them as standards for O&M assessments
and instruction. Contact information about this program is in the Resources
section at the end of this issue.